Poetry
by Natalie Nallareet
Summary: Bahorel has watched Jehan Prouvaire from a far, the poet, the flower lover. It's not until after Bahorel's certain that one of his idiotic ideas is the way to go that he first has real contact with Jehan.
1. Chapter 1

**A/C**: I've been both meaning to use poetry in my fanfiction and write a fluff for Bahorel/Jehan so when this plot bunny appeared I was very pleased. A very short fic, with both the chapter sizes and in general. Anyways, I hope you all still enjoy it.

**Third person/Present**

* * *

The day has a distinct nip in the air as Bahorel leaves the Musain cafe, starting down the busy Paris road. Usually he won't leave so early; in fact, he's almost positive he'll be returning to the cafe in a half an hour or so, but he needs to make sure that he puts enough care into this opportunity, not stumble and waste it as he's done countless times before. Who knows? Maybe if this succeeds, it could still be considered a waste, because it's too cheesy or artificial or silly and doesn't capture the intention put into the idea. Bahorel can't force himself to turn back, though; he wrote the damn poem so he might as well completely this freaking task. This isn't something that he usually does, and somehow it's suppose to become a regular-just for a little while, and for a worthy cause. Well, that's if this works. Bahorel's tried many things on this particular quest and nothing good has come of it yet, just the inability of people taking him seriously. Not just people, though; generally, he doesn't care so much about them, but a person in specific is very different.

The chill has affected the citizens on the street even more than they change the way that Bahorel moves about the pavement. There are less people about now, and those that are do so with a quick foot that flies them across to where they'll be nice and warm. Of course, there are those who don't have a place to go back to, poor souls cast about the world with less than a blanket to shield them from this misery. They huddle in the corners of the buildings, bundled together to make up for the coat. If this winter is going to be as cold as it's promising so far, most of them won't survive the bitter months later in the season, cutting away at the population in the hundreds. This, of course, is all being discussed by Enjolras and the rest back at the cafe, along with ways to show the unaware this injustice. Bahorel's pretty certain that Grantaire is right about this one being a doozy, and therefore feels better about skipping out for just a breath of time. Chances are no one will miss him for this amount of time. Out here, even though the wind is fierce and gusty, the sun is managing to blaze within a clear sky, giving one source of warmth to the Saturday afternoon.

Bahorel walks through the streets, turning sharply to one of the apartments located on this main street, where he knows Jehan Prouvaire spends most of his dwellings within, on the third floor, first door to the left of the staircase. The flowery man claims he likes it there, that it gives him a good view of the streets, but Bahorel has seen that the place can often stress him out as do many places in this city. After all, it's not possible to plant a proper garden while living in such a place. Of course, now Jehan's apartment is empty, as he is with the rest back at the Musain. This is what Bahorel expects, this is what he counts on. He walks up through the front door of the building, and marches over to the landlady, his mind twisting with nervousness.

"Hello, madame," Bahorel greets, feeling slightly sheepish about this whole process. It's a dumb idea, it really is, and he has no idea why he's going through with it. "I have a letter to Monseiur Prouvairem but I need it to be delivered to him without it being known that I was the one to give it. Could that be done?"

"Yes, I imagine so," was the wary nod that responds to his inquiry. She takes the letter he has clasped in his hands, tightly folded and sealed within an envelope labeled with the singular name Jehan Prouvaire.

"Thank you so much, Madame," Bahorel bids, before turning on his heels and exiting the building without another word. He needs to be well gone from this place by the time Jehan shows up to receive his present.

* * *

By the time Jehan is heading home from the meeting, darkness has fallen and the temperatures has as well. The first snow is beginning to fall as he steps outside, since clouds had managed to blow in during their meeting and was now letting out it's steam in this chill. He gazes around for a moment, taking in the calm scene before him. Paris is never quite silent, always rocking back and forth with the noises of the people and the hum of the poor with the buzz of the rich. That's what Jehan loves about this city, because although he enjoys the pure silence of the country or a smaller town immensely, the ebbing flows of movement that scatter about Paris contain more magic and inspiration for the young poet, filling his life with far more opportunities than a small town or the country could ever provide. It's also because of this that he quite enjoys his walk home, listening to the soft lullaby of horse hooves against the ground that's somewhat softened by the incoming snow. He loves the snow, too, how it wavers and dances in the air, flying upon the wind in such a haze and a flutter, before melting so briefly into either the warm ground or amongst the cover of snow that already lurks there.

When he enters the apartment, it's with weary legs that are anxious to carry him into bed, where he can bundle into the sleepiness and properly enjoy the cold haze. He almost sweeps directly up the stairs to his room, and completely passing his landlady by.

"Monsieur Prouvaire!" she shouts out, catching him already half way up the stairs. "You have received a letter during your absence."

"Really?" He yawns, almost falling down the stairs in his efforts to get back down the steps and to her outstretched hand. "Thank you, Madame. I hope you sleep well and that you had a good day." He doesn't even think to ask for who left it, since he's fairly sure that it must be mentioned somewhere on the paper, an assumption he regrets later.

"Of course, goodnight, Prouvaire," she responds, before exiting into her own quarters.

He doesn't bother opening his letter right away, but instead brings himself back up the steps, to the third floor, and casts himself upon the bed so that he's splayed out enough to relax on top of his covers. His eyes slightly glazed with his exhaustion, he easily opens the sealing, allowing his nimble hands to fish the paper out that's lurking inside. There isn't any signature across any surface of the parchment, but instead a poem, with lettering that has been purposely written so neatly that it disguises the hand writing Jehan would have otherwise been able able to identify.

If I

Keep writing

Like this

It may seem

Like poetry

And if I italicize

It might even

Hint at

_Love_

A smile spreads across Jehan's face at this poem. The whole thing is teeming with unmentioned sarcasm, as it obviously makes fun of the art that is so close to Jehan's heart, but it's an endearing sarcasm, one he's sure was done with good intentions and thought. Perhaps it might even hint at a love poem. Unwilling to do anything else in this tired state, Jehan puts the poem aside, onto his bed stand, and crawls beneath his covers to fall into a lovely, deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_Flutters of unheard words_

_Drifting into sight_

_Flutter of unseen sparks_

_Ready to set light_

_Mysteries of riddles with unattached strings_

_But the faint beat of the heart_

_Ready to bleed again_

_J._

* * *

_You scatter about words_

_With such grace_

_You make me wish I could find rhymes_

_As easily as your face?_

_-Your Anonymous lover_

* * *

"And you have no idea who's sending you these poems, Jehan?" The words can be heard across the Musain cafe, and Bahorel perks up his head in response. He hasn't really heard Jehan talk about the poems, and, despite the fact that he's been answering them with his own more swiftly driven poems, it's hard to tell if he's actually enjoying Bahorel's attempt at poetry. The words spur from Courfeyrac's lips, who now sits across from Jehan.

"I have my suspicions, of course, but nothing's definite," Jehan's light voice sprank out, so soft that Bahorel can barely make him out. That's how he communicates, how Bahorel prefers it, as though the words could be blown away by the faintest of breezes, as articulate and well thought-out as they are.

"Anonymous poetry, does it speak the words of love?" Grantaire leans over on their table, laughter upon his lips and his face red with the liquor he's already consumed that night. He's obviously there for the tease, and yet Bahorel still wants to just be sitting there beside Jehan, making sure they don't give him too much of a hard time over it.

"It does indeed," Jehan murmurs, a faint smile upon his lips. He doesn't say more, though, even though it's clear from Grantaire's pause that the others are waiting for details.

"Look at your face glow such a ruby red," Grantaire chuckles, clasping a rough hand over Jehan's shoulder. "You must know who it is. Some lucky lady who has it in for you." He pauses, his smile widening. "Or man. Aha, yes, you do think it's a man, don't you, Jehan?" He coos the words out, still laughing, before consuming another swig of alcohol. It's true that the smaller man's face grew brighter after his later words, but he still says nothing to confirm or deny Grantaire's assumptions.

"Who do you think it is, little lover?" Grantaire questions, standing up completely and looking about the cafe. His eyes shift about to everyone, and rests on a few, Bahorel not amongst them. Of course it wouldn't cross his mind that Bahorel is writing poetry-it's doubtless that Jehan has not bothered to mention that each poem has clearly been written by an amature.

"I would rather not say," Jehan reveals carefully, and at his words Bahorel notices that the young man's eyes cast about to fall on him, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second. "I am positive that whoever it is, they will come and tell me who they are themselves. Until then, I can guess who the mysterious lover is, and continue to respond with my own form of poetry."

"Alright," Grantaire snorts, shrugging his broad shoulders and standing up. He returns the bottle to his lips before stumbling back slightly. He's no longer concentrated on Jehan and Courfeyrac who still sit below him, but instead his eyes have fallen upon Enjolras, who's quietly conversing in his usual intense manner with Combeferre. Still, the drunkard continues to talk as if he's not so completely concentrated on the revolutionary leader, who continues to ignore him. "If you are willing to make do with having to wait a long time, continue upon your path by all means. I wouldn't expect a definite something though. For most, especially those who write anonymous letters, love is a timid beast."

Looking away Bahorel smiles to himself. Jehan won't have to wait long at all for his mysterious lover to reveal himself. Especially since Bahorel's pretty positive that Jehan already knows it's him who is the culprit.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/C** So different from my usual thing, and so much shorter as well, but I hope you all enjoyed despite those things.

* * *

It's two weeks after the initial love poem that Jehan Prouvaire finds himself walking home one evening from the Musain. He hasn't received a poem for the last two days, and if the poetry continues upon the course that it seemed set on, Prouvaire is sure that he is going to receive one that very night. It's been easy for him to guess who the culprit is, really, having suspected Bahorel to have a crush on him from past encounters, but it's still sweet how he seems to be set on keeping his identity a secret despite that. Jehan would never have guessed before that Bahorel was going to attempt to seduce him using poetry, the larger man seeming to have little interest in words. And yet it seems that his interest in Jehan has swept past that, granting him the ability to at least attempt to work with the pen.

As Jehan continues to walk along, the sun sets beneath the array of buildings and the streets get colder. He has to pull his coat around himself tighter, bracing himself against the sudden chill that grips him. He doesn't mind the cold, really, but he's always prefered the warmth of the day. The building that he's walking towards grows larger in his eyes, the flat that he's been situated at since moving to Paris. He breathes in the bitter coldness of the outside, exhaling slowly and allowing the night to claim him in its shadowed embrace. Then he promptly turns towards the door and slips into the building. He walks up, past the woman at the front, and to the door to his own flat. He's looking down so intently at his keys that it's not until he looks up to place it into his door that he notices the larger figure cowering next to his flat. Cowering, because he's so much more sunken down into the shadows from the usual stance of Bahorel.

"Bahorel?" Jehan's voice quivers up from his thin lips.

"Hey, Jehan," Bahorel stood up, fumbling with something in his hands that couldn't be seen by the young poet. "I, um... here." He thrusts forwards what he has clasped between his two outstretched hands, a crumpled piece of paper.

"Thanks," Jehan replies. He knows he shouldn't be too obvious about the fact that he knows this must be another poem. Still, he's practically glowing as he takes the slip of paper and unfolds it for the words to appear before his eyes.

_Roses are red_

_Violets are blue_

_I wrote you poetry_

_Because I love you_

_-Bahorel_


End file.
